Alternate Hypotheses
by ureshiiichigo
Summary: Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea. *This covers the same events as Independent Variables, but from John's viewpoint.* Preslash (bordering on slash). Beta'd by percygranger.
1. John, Guinea Pig

**Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig**

John's dilemma, of course, was the fault of a Holmes. This was nothing new; Sherlock had a tendency to set fire to the flat, and Mycroft enjoyed kidnapping John at odd times.

John wasn't sure exactly whose fault this was, but it was definitely one of the two.

Mycroft had visited John the previous week with news of Irene Adler's death, and it had shaken John more than he'd expected. He'd almost told Sherlock, but at the last moment Sherlock had looked at him with knowing eyes and interrupted him before he could say anything more.

Irene had been in love with Sherlock. And the man had somehow _deduced it _- thanks to her elevated heart rate and dilated pupils.

It didn't make any sense. How could Sherlock distinguish between love and arousal? You couldn't tell love from someone's heart rate.

Could you?

And then John made his big mistake.

He asked Sherlock.

"You can't tell love from... physical symptoms, Sherlock. I mean, physical attraction is one thing. Love is entirely different, isn't it? How did you know she wasn't just attracted to you?"

Sherlock, as per usual, had been annoying and argumentative, and John, as per usual, didn't have the sense to keep his bloody mouth shut.

"People don't just fall in love overnight. How did you know for sure?"

Sherlock, snarky as ever, simply interrupted John mid-sentence, completely dismissing his argument. "Limerence."

"What?" John asked, taken off guard.

"The technical term is limerence, John. It's what most people refer to as being in love. Oh, for the love of – stop staring and look it up if you don't believe me!"

Limerence.

John typed the word into his web browser and clicked on the first search result - Wikipedia.

_**Limerence**__ is an involuntary state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated._

Odd. John had encountered something similar with past girlfriends. He'd pursue a woman relentlessly, spend his days thinking of her, fantasising - not just about sex, but about going on dates, cuddling on the couch, spending time together. Then they would start dating, and after a month or so, John's obsession would fade. The women were never so interesting as he'd initially thought.

More recently, however, he spent so much time with Sherlock, that it seemed like that was all John thought about.

Come to think of it...

John glanced over at his flatmate, sprawled on the sofa and pretending to type something into his mobile, while sneaking surreptitious glances at John.

Oh, bugger.

John looked back at the article.

_A person experiencing limerence has a general intensity of feeling that leaves other concerns in the background. In their thoughts, a limerent person tends to emphasize what is admirable in the limerent object and to avoid any negative or problematic attributes._

John didn't make excuses for Sherlock all the time. Just. Often.

Sherlock really was brilliant. And John knew he could be an arse. But. He was amazing. Surely other people saw that, too?

_At their most severe, intrusive limerent thoughts can occupy an individual's waking hours completely, resulting- like severe addiction- in significant or complete disruption of the limerent's normal interests and activities, including work and family._

How many times had John abandoned dates and shifts at the surgery to come running home after Sherlock messaged him?

How many times had he stayed up all night working on a case with Sherlock and had to beg off work the following morning?

More worryingly, how many times had John gotten distracted at work because he kept expecting a text that never came?

_Feelings of limerence can be intensified through adversity, obstacles, or distance - 'Intensification through Adversity'._

What was it Sherlock had said? Ah, yes. "Married to my work."

_There is also a statistically significant correlation between limerence and post traumatic stress disorder._

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fu-

"What? What is it?"

John's head snapped up when he realised Sherlock was now staring at him. He managed to shake his head and shove the laptop on the table. Time for a strategic retreat. He could use a nice cup of tea just about now. Tea fixed everything.

"While you're up," Sherlock called from the sitting room, "could you make me a cup as well?"

Well, everything except _being in love_ with your _bloody arrogant git_ of a flatmate.

x.x.x.x.x

After a nice, cold shower, John was feeling distinctly more cheerful, and he whistled as he shaved in front of the foggy bathroom mirror.

Of course, it wouldn't last long.

"John! We need to visit Bart's."

John paused mid-stroke, the razor halfway down his chin.

"What? Why?" He peered out at Sherlock, who was pacing back and forth in the hallway beside the bathroom. "Can it wait five minutes?"

Sherlock stopped in his pacing and fixed John with a glare. "Time is of the essence, John!"

Translation: _I'm bored and I don't want to wait._

God. Why did he put up with this?

Oh, right, because he was Dr. Watson, professional doormat, in lo-

_Experiencing limerent desire_, he mentally corrected, _for my mad flatmate._

John sighed and said, "I'm going to look like an idiot if I stop shaving now. I'll try to be quick." He attempted to shave the right side of his face with quick, clean strokes, but the razor was dull, and caught on his tender flesh. By the time he'd finished, he was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and still had a rough patch of stubble on his right cheek.

So, now he looked like an idiot _and_ his face was irritated.

John daubed at his many cuts with toilet paper to stem the bleeding before stumbling out of the bathroom, grimacing. "I'm blaming you for this. There's no way I'm getting a date with this many cuts." Not that he'd even tried, lately. Best not to think of that. "And they're only on one side! They'll think I'm doing it on purpose."

Sherlock simply sighed, apparently the most put-upon man on the planet. "I'm sure it's the latest fashion, John. Shall we?"

x.x.x.x.x

Some days, John thought he should be awarded a medal for not strangling Sherlock. Either that or a cell in a sanitarium. Possibly both.

The cab ride to Bart's was excruciating. John was increasingly conscious of his natural inclination to ogle Sherlock. He kept trying to turn his head and peek at Sherlock, currently obsessively typing something on his mobile. Every time John started to stare, he would direct his gaze back to the car window. Then he discovered he was just watching Sherlock's reflection in the glass, and forced himself to count pedestrians for the rest of the trip.

What was most infuriating to John was the fact that it had taken him so damn long to realise how he felt.

It should have been obvious. It _was_ obvious. To everyone except him, apparently.

Well. Not everyone.

Apparently, Sherlock didn't know that John was in love with him. Really, how thick could someone be? Aside from all the hints being dropped by everyone and their grandmother (thanks, Mrs. Hudson), there was the little fact that John put up with his massive git of a flatmate. That he laughed at his bloody awful jokes about corpses and serial killers. That he tried to stem the bleeding when the idiot had split his skull open in the course of apprehending some criminal. That he kept grinning like a madman even after discovering mould samples growing in his tea kettle. That he had become _jealous_ over Irene Adler. John was still annoyed at himself for that last one.

But John just kept remembering the way Sherlock had looked at him, at the pool, when he thought he was going to lose John. Sherlock had been utterly terrified, and for whatever reason, that had made everything okay. Being kidnapped was worth knowing what he meant to Sherlock.

That didn't make Sherlock any less of a wanker.

Sherlock bounded out of the cab, leaving John to pay the bill, as always, and raced off towards the hospital entrance. John jogged after him to catch up.

"So what are you looking at this time? Decomposing toes? Jane Doe, dead under mysterious circumstances?"

Sherlock glanced at John distractedly. "What? No, nothing like that. I'm here to see Molly."

"_Molly?_"

Sherlock grunted and waved his hand dismissively at John as he pushed the door open with a gloved hand.

"Ah, Molly. Good to see you this afternoon."

Molly looked up from her dissection of a cadaver - male, late 80s, overweight, probable cause of death: heart attack.

John really needed to stop hanging around Sherlock.

Molly flashed a shaky smile at Sherlock and set down her scalpel on the metal cart in front of her. "What brings you here?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you had any more eyeballs. My latest batch was contaminated." At this he turned and gave John a dirty look.

"How was I to know they needed to be undisturbed? You put them on top of the eggs. On _top_, Sherlock."

"It's not my fault that you insist on such an inane organisational system."

Molly's head swished back and forth between the two men as though watching a tennis match.

"Sorry, Molly. He's a bit _impatient_ today."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not impatient; I simply strive for efficiency. Never mind. John, will you fetch us coffees? Molly takes hers with cream and three sugars."

"Two sugars," Molly corrected.

Sherlock frowned. "Three."

John just sighed. "Yes, fine, whatever, I'll go get your bloody coffee." He turned and strode towards the exit, mumbling under his breath. "Wanker."

Sherlock's voice drifted through the door as John left the lab. "I heard that."

As John waited for the coffee machine to spit out its second cup of black goo, he idly wondered what Sherlock had meant earlier, when he'd said he was here to see Molly. He'd told her he wanted more eyeballs... and though it was true that John had moved them off the eggs, and Sherlock had been mildly irritated as it had disturbed whatever experiment he'd been running, that was over a week ago, and surely he would have sought replacements before now?

The whole thing was highly suspicious. He absently stirred two sugars into Sherlock's coffee before traipsing down the stairs to the lab.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said, looking past Molly, who was currently bright red and gazing at Sherlock in a suspiciously amorous manner. "Took you long enough." Sherlock strode up to John, plucked one of the cups out of his hand, and promptly exited the lab.

"What the..." John simply turned to stare at the door swinging shut behind Sherlock.

"Is he quite alright?" Molly asked. "Only... he asked me about Toby. He _never_ asks about Toby."

Molly smiled at John awkwardly and John winced back. "Oh, your cat. Yes."

"And Toby has been sick lately, and I thought, well, maybe Sherlock deduced something about him, but Sherlock's never cared before, and he was looking at me rather oddly, and I just thought, well, maybe he's finally decided to give me a chance, which, really, is terribly rude of him. Considering everything. I mean, really, could he have picked a worse time? I'm not - you know, after last Christmas, I really, well, I started seeing someone, and he's nice, you know, actually nice, and he... Oh! I'm babbling, aren't I? Yes. Sorry."

John simply blinked at Molly for a few moments. "Right. You - coffee?"

Molly started to reach for the coffee in John's hand when a beep emanated from John's pocket. Molly blinked up at him, eyes wide. "Oh. Do you need to get that?"

John shook his head and handed Molly her coffee. It was probably from Sherlock - the git.

He didn't have long to wonder what the message said before Molly received a text of her own.

She pulled out her phone and frowned at the message, before turning back to look at John, her nose wrinkling and her brow furrowing in confusion.

John sighed and pulled out his own phone.

**_Are her pupils dilated? SH_**

John frowned. "What?"

"You, too, huh?" Molly asked. "What is he doing, some sort of experiment?"

"Experiment?"

Suddenly everything clicked into place.

That bastard.

He was _experimenting_. On John.

Because he wanted to find out if John was in love with him.

Of all the rubbish, arrogant-

"You going to reply?" Molly asked, interrupting John's inner tirade.

"Yes. Yes, I think I will."

**_No, you daft git. Get back in here, she's moaning like a love-sick fawn. JW_**

John considered the situation. There was no way for John to win this little game that he and Sherlock were playing. He would, eventually, be discovered. Sherlock would prove that John... fancied him. And then things would be awkward, and John would be forced to either move out or say goodbye to the last shreds of his dignity.

Eventually, Sherlock would _know_.

But he didn't have to make things easy for Sherlock in the meantime.

**_What did you send to Molly? She's been txting for the last 3 minutes. JW_**

_**Irrelevant. SH**_

Sherlock came strolling back in as though he owned the place, and John couldn't help smirking back at him. Sherlock was gazing at him with all the fascination he normally reserved for disemboweled, beheaded murder victims, found in a locked room with no windows.

He suddenly glanced over at Molly, and his expression clouded. "I forgot my riding crop, one moment," he said, turning and striding back out the door.

John didn't bother holding back his snort. "That's bollocks. It's sitting on our dining room table."

Molly turned to John, her expression warring between amusement and disgust. "Wait, really?"

Sherlock stormed back in, this time staring at Molly. "Never mind. I must have left it at Mycroft's." He frowned before his gaze flicked back to John. "Come along, John, must retrieve it before my brother notices."

John managed to bite his tongue until they were outside and Sherlock was hailing a taxi. "I seriously hope we never have to retrieve your riding crop from your brother's estate." Sherlock spared him a puzzled glance. "Think of the questions," John added.

"Questions?"

"You know... How long was it gone before you noticed?"

"That doesn't seem like a particularly interesting question," Sherlock protested, still frowning. "It would depend entirely on my need for the riding crop."

"Exactly." John grinned.

Sherlock just blinked back at him. Apparently Sherlock was not apprised of alternate uses for the riding crop. You'd think Irene Adler would have at least shown him a thing or two.

"You're really thick sometimes, you know that?"

Sherlock's expression of confusion was replaced by a familiar smirk. "Ah. One of my many attractive attributes, no doubt. I'll file that away along with 'spectacularly ignorant,' 'idiot,' and 'sociopathic tendencies'."

Sherlock was so many things. Brilliant, gorgeous, exciting, inquisitive, passionate...

"Don't forget 'daft bugger'," John added.

Sherlock's smile widened. "Ah, yes, mustn't miss that one." His grin faltered and his gaze flicked away from John.

Sherlock strode over to the street and raised his arm to flag down a cab. Without looking at John, he asked, "John, did you happen to notice my pupils? Control group, very important."

As if John could tell. Sherlock was still refusing to look at him. "I don't know," he said, trying to remember. "They look dilated to me."

Sherlock's eyes flicked back to John's, widened in apparent shock. "What?"

John grinned and poked Sherlock good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it," John said, smirking at Sherlock's apparent panic. "Probably the light out here. It's awfully dim, don't you think?"

Cool gaze back in place, Sherlock looked back at John, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards almost imperceptibly.

It wasn't until hours later, safely back in the flat, sat in his armchair with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, that John thought to wonder why Sherlock's pupils had been dilated.


	2. Uncooperative Test Subjects

**Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects**

Unlike Sherlock, John didn't tend to look for complicated solutions to problems. He was a firm believer in Occam's razor. When in doubt, the simplest solution was probably the correct one.

And although there were many and varied possible explanations for Sherlock's dilated pupils, the most likely explanation was a simple one.

The three possibilities John knew of that caused pupil dilation were as follows:

Sherlock had recently suffered head trauma;  
Sherlock was under the effects of some sort of drug; or  
Sherlock was experiencing the effects of naturally released oxytocin.

In layman's terms:

Sherlock was concussed;  
Sherlock was high; or  
Sherlock was attracted to someone in the immediate vicinity.

It was easy enough to eliminate the options. John was fairly certain that Sherlock had suffered no recent head blows, nor had he ingested anything more stimulating than caffeine.

So Sherlock was attracted to him, then. John tried not to feel too insufferably smug about the fact.

x.x.x.x.x

On a sunny afternoon four days later, John was sitting in his chair, idly picturing Sherlock in a towel and wondering how he'd react if John were to pop out of the shower without one, when a visitor knocked on the door to 221B.

Sherlock, previously laying stretched out on the sofa with his arms folded across his stomach, leapt up and stormed over to the door, dressing gown flapping wildly about his legs.

Instead of opening the door, however, he fastened the deadbolt.

"Mycroft?" John hazarded.

A voice came through the closed door, muffled but still sharp with public school articulation. "Don't be childish, Sherlock."

"Go away!" Sherlock shouted through the door.

"Oh, for God's sake," John said, "just let him in and be done with it."

Sherlock ignored John and stalked back to the sofa, where he flopped bonelessly, emitting a dramatic sigh.

John really shouldn't find that attractive.

Why did he find that attractive?

Mycroft cleared his throat as the deadbolt unlocked and the door swung open. He slipped the door key into his left breast pocket with something resembling a smirk.

"John, delightful as always to see you. How have you been?"

John managed a strained smile in reply. "Fine, thanks. Tea?"

Mycroft smiled, wolf-like, as he settled into Sherlock's chair. "Tea would be lovely, thank you."

John kept half an ear open for the brothers' bickering as he puttered about the kitchen. When the flat was quiet once more, he poked his head back into the sitting room. "Mycroft gone already?"

Sherlock, now perched on the sofa with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees, scowled back at John. "If only. He's relieving himself. I've no idea why he couldn't wait until he got back to his office."

John rolled his eyes as he retreated. "Too much information, Sherlock, thanks."

When he came back into the sitting room, three mugs of steaming Earl Grey in hand, Mycroft was back in Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock looked even more hunched into himself than before, chin resting on his knees and shoulders drawn up almost to his ears.

"This is beneath my attention, Mycroft! Why did you even bother coming here?"

Mycroft simply took the cup John offered him and took a smooth sip, not even glancing in John's direction. "You have no cases on at the moment, Sherlock. I thought that perhaps a matter of national security would be enough to intrigue you."

"Apparently not," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft set the mug down on the table and rose to his feet all in one smooth movement. "Very well. I doubt that wasting more of your _valuable_ time will be of benefit to either of us."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Mycroft."

Mycroft simply nodded once towards John and swept out of the room, umbrella dangling from one hand elegantly.

"Good riddance," Sherlock muttered as the door clicked softly shut behind his brother.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, "you can't keep doing that to your brother. For one thing, we could use the money."

Sherlock merely flopped sideways onto the sofa and did his best impression of a Salvador Dali painting, practically melting over the side, his back bent at an awkward angle. "It was _obvious_, John. Besides, I don't trust him. For all I know, it was just a ploy to plant more bugs in the flat."

It took a moment for Sherlock's words to register. "Wait, what? Bugs? You're not serious, are you?"

Unfortunately, Sherlock looked rather too thoughtful to be joking. "Hmmm. He went to the toilet. I'll have to check there as well."

"Wait, you think he bugged the loo?" John could feel his face heating up as he pictured Mycroft in front of a bank of monitors showing John wanking off in the shower from various angles. "What the hell is wrong with your family?"

Sherlock shrugged and waved his hand in the air as though he were fanning away the smell Mycroft had left behind. "Don't worry, I'll be thorough. You won't have to worry about preserving your modesty from my brother's prying eyes." He smirked at John. "He'll be sorely disappointed, I'm sure."

John would never be able to wank in the shower again. He turned and went back to the kitchen. More than one cup of tea would be required to wipe that particular image from his brain.

x.x.x.x.x

John was going slowly mad.

It was all the fault of this bloody experiment.

It had been three weeks since he'd gone to the lab with Sherlock. At first, Sherlock would spend massive amounts of time cooped up in his room, doing God-knows-what, until John was able to lure him out. The flat had certainly been more peaceful. Fewer gruesome experiments. No corpses. Sherlock wasn't trying to steal his gun and shoot holes in the wall, or flying about the flat looking for his smokes. There were even fewer body parts in the fridge.

In fact, Sherlock had been quite pleasant the past few weeks, with the exception of placing those toes in John's jar of raspberry jam.

After Mycroft came 'round the flat and Sherlock made that quip about the cameras, John started paying extra attention.

Apparently Mycroft wasn't the only one to plant cameras in the flat.

For the last three weeks, whenever they came up the seventeen steps to the flat, Sherlock would always, _always_, let John go first up the stairs. When they were in the kitchen, Sherlock would stand in one of three positions, and he'd subtly change his body language when John was in front of the cooker, making tea. In the sitting room, he always tried to get John to sit if he was pacing the room.

And when Sherlock was around John, well, he was... quite attentive.

It was flattering, really. Being the centre of Sherlock's attention, for once. Even on cases, Sherlock would always be looking at John. They'd been spending more time together.

From this, John had concluded that there were five cameras hidden about the flat, that Sherlock knew of their locations, and more importantly, he wanted John to be filmed by them.

Of course, the best revenge would be to ruin Sherlock's data collection. So when he made tea, he angled his head down. When he sat in his chair, he always focused on his laptop or a newspaper.

He could tell he was succeeding in his goal when Sherlock would start pouting from his spot on the sofa.

The longer John could drag this out, the better off he'd be.

As soon as Sherlock determined the source of his infatuation ("call it what it is," a traitorous voice whispered inside John's head) he would be off to bigger, better things. And, to be honest, John rather liked this version of Sherlock.

He was quiet, focused, and, well...

He was a bit obsessed with John.

John didn't mind.

In fact, he rather liked it.

And he found himself thinking of Sherlock even more often.

Like right now, for instance, at work, when he should be filling out paperwork in between appointments.

Why was it that he couldn't get the man out of his head? Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Every time his mobile buzzed, his heart leapt with the idiotic hope that it would be a text from Sherlock.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

God, it was probably Harry. She'd called and texted yesterday to complain about Clara and her life and why was it John could have better luck with his relationships, when he wasn't even gay. And John hadn't even bothered to whip out the tired party line, just told her not to call at work and hung up on her.

But it might be Sherlock.

He pulled out his mobile, trying not to get his hopes up, and when he turned on the screen, he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

_**Bored. SH**_

Right. Best gather his thoughts before he said something ridiculous.

_**And what do you expect me to do about it, exactly? JW**_

John just clutched his phone like a giddy school girl, awaiting Sherlock's response. God, he was ridiculous. What was _wrong_ with him?

Less than five seconds after setting down his phone on the table, it buzzed with a reply.

_**Give me a case. SH**_

John snorted.

_**Sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Unless you're looking to solve the case of the missing semi-skimmed, try Lestrade. JW**_

There. Moderately clever.

This time there was hardly any wait before Sherlock's returning text.

_**Already solved that one. Mrs. Hudson was the culprit. She bribed one John H. Watson with the promise of scones. Very shady. SH**_

John couldn't help chuckling to himself as he composed his reply.

_**Are you planning on revealing these findings to the police? Or are you going to hold the evidence over the doctor's head in order to extort a share of said scones? JW**_

_**Do you take me for a monster? I will do neither. But if the good doctor feels my deductions merit a reward, I would not object to a scone or two. SH**_

Was Sherlock... flirting?

_**Well then, if I see this alleged Dr. Watson, I'll let him know of your desire for scones. JW**_

No. No, of course Sherlock wasn't flirting. He was playing a game, trying to draw John out and expose him.

But if John just forgot about the experiment, about the fact that his flatmate was a man with the emotional intelligence of a four-year-old, it almost felt like...

God.

What was John even thinking?

Sherlock didn't want him; he was just toying with him, trying to provoke a specific reaction. John stuffed the phone back in his pocket, trying to push his flatmate out of his mind.

John tried to pretend he wasn't disappointed when his phone never buzzed with a reply.


	3. Experimental Error

**Chapter 3: Experimental Error**

John stared, mournful, out the window behind him as the train pulled away from South Kensington station. From the corner of his eye, he saw a young woman seated across from him with curvy hips and a ruby red mouth. She glanced at him periodically as she worked on her cross stitch.

She was gorgeous; just his type. The copper highlights in her auburn hair gleamed in the flickering fluorescent lights of the carriage, and her skirt was long enough to be modest but still short enough to show off her frankly spectacular calves.

He could move to sit next to her; engage her in conversation. Her occasional glances indicated her interest plainly enough.

Fiercely shushing his inner Sherlock (_so obvious that even John Watson can pick up on it - now that's saying something_), John threw a smile in the woman's direction the next time he caught her stealing a glance. "What are you working on?" he asked.

She nearly dropped her needle and thread. "Oh! Sorry. This? Um. Gift for my mother." Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was biting gently on her lower lip as she smiled over at him.

"Oh?" John asked, trying to bite back his smile. "Mind if I take a closer look?"

The woman shook her head violently, curls bouncing against her shoulders. "Of course not! Please."

"I'm John, by the way."

"Mary."

They ended up exchanging pleasantries for the next few minutes; apparently Mary was a primary school teacher who liked Ethiopian food, cross stitch, and rugby.

When Mary started packing up for her stop, John hesitated. "Could I get your number, Mary?"

"Oh, yes. Do you... have any paper?"

John patted his pockets absently. "Ah, no, as it happens."

Mary smiled. "That's fine. Give me your hand."

As John sat there, Mary's head bent over his hand, scrawling digits into his palm, he was reminded of a case he'd been on with Sherlock a few weeks ago. Sherlock's phone had run out of battery and John's had met its watery death in the Thames during the chase, and for some reason Sherlock had insisted on scrawling a note on John's arm with permanent marker. He smiled briefly at the memory, and when he refocused on the auburn head in front of him, he felt his stomach clench.

Mary seemed like a lovely girl. He could ask her for a drink. Take her to dinner. Go on three or four dates, avoiding his flat and flatmate for as long as she would put up with his silence. Go back to her place for a coffee - and then what?

At the end of the day he would go home to face Sherlock. Searching eyes, sharp tongue, calculating mind. Long, lean, pale lines, a wardrobe from a fashion magazine, the feline grace of a body that hid muscles of steel behind a wiry frame.

He would go home, and face the thing he wanted, and could not have.

John could believe that Sherlock liked John; he appreciated their friendship and he even occasionally made tea or put on a film when he sensed he was in John's bad graces.

John could believe that Sherlock found him attractive; he'd never said as much, but he'd implied he was gay, and John had caught him staring one too many times to be coincidence. Sherlock's dilated pupils three weeks ago had just been what caused John to look, actually look, at the effect he had on Sherlock. The occasional well timed stretch (reaching for tea on the top shelf to reveal that strip of skin between jumper and jeans, or bending over to pick up his dropped mobile with his arse conspicuously angled towards Sherlock) had been sufficient to bring a flush to the man's pale cheeks. John felt a stir of pride (and perhaps something else) every time he caught Sherlock looking.

But a relationship? Commitment? The one thing John wanted, truly desired?

(Well, besides the chance to get his hands on that exquisite arse.)

Sherlock's previous discussion of the subject had been more than enough to make his opinion clear.

_I consider myself married to my work._  
_Will caring about them help save them? _  
_I've been reliably informed I don't have one._

Since Sherlock wouldn't have him, John had searched for alternatives. But no one had been able to make his heart race, to make the blood sing in his veins, to fascinate him so. How could anyone ever compete with this brilliant madman?

He bit his lip as he reflected on his conversation with Sarah not forty minutes ago; the entire reason for abandoning his shift early and ending up on the tube at three in the afternoon when he should have still been at the surgery filling out paperwork.

He hadn't even heard her open the door to his office. She had cleared her throat and he'd tensed up, raising his head from the nest of his folded arms.

"Sarah. Hi."

"John Watson, you are the consummate professional. Case keep you up late?" Her mischievous grin faded when she caught sight of the expression on John's face. "God, John, what's wrong?"

John let his eyes fall shut as he straightened in the chair. So much for keeping a stiff upper lip. "Nothing."

"Sherlock."

It was a statement, not a question, and John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of his throat. It came out in a rasp of sound, almost a cough, bitter and harsh.

When John opened his eyes, Sarah was looking at him with a guarded expression. She pulled out the chair in front of John's desk and sat. "Want to talk about it?"

John didn't say anything, just swallowed and looked away.

"You could find a different flat, you know. Move on. I think I know a friend who's looking-"

"No." His voice sounded strange in his own ears. "Sarah, no. That's not..."

"Go home, John."

He snapped his eyes back to her face. She looked serious. "What- I'm fine, Sarah!"

"No, you really aren't. And I don't want you treating any patients when you're in this state. Go home and get your head straight. You only have one more patient this afternoon, anyway. Mindy can take him."

John had almost said something - he had to literally bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from arguing. But instead, he had just stared at Sarah, and she had stared back, gaze firm. Eventually, he'd just nodded, picked up his things, and left.

He wasn't entirely sure he'd have a job when he came back for the next shift.

He'd checked his watch, then: half past two, and six degrees outside. Too early for a pint. Too cold for a walk. Too embarrassing to call up an old friend for comfort or advice.

So he walked for as long as he could stand, braving the winter chill and damp, until his shoulder burned and his toes were numb and his fingers felt like to fall off. At that point, even facing Sherlock was starting to sound a pleasant alternative.

He'd found the nearest tube station and huddled into his jacket as he waited for the train. Miss auburn hair, dress suit, and cross stitch had smiled at him from the opposite platform, and he'd manoeuvred his way into the same carriage.

John blinked, shaking himself out of his reverie. He looked over to the seat next to him, at a warm, open face and kind eyes.

He thought of Sarah, of Trillian and Claire and Janette. He thought of the man waiting back in Baker Street. Suddenly queasy, he'd turned to look out the window. "Ah, look, Mary, I think you should know-"

He felt, rather than saw, the woman draw back, her mobile number only partially applied to his palm. "Oh. Sorry. I thought..."

John forced his eyes back to hers, to see for himself the embarrassment and the pain of rejection reflecting back at him. "It's not-" He inhaled. "I'm just not ready for a relationship right now, is all."

"Right." Her smile was tight. "I should get ready to go, my stop is coming up soon."

"Yes, of course."

He turned back to the window and watched the tunnel walls whisk by in the dark for a few long minutes. When he next looked up, he was relieved to see that Mary was gone.

x.x.x.x.x

When John finally trudged up the seventeen stairs to the flat and walked into the sitting room, he slipped out of his coat and padded over to the kitchen to make some tea. The door to Sherlock's room had been shut, and John could hear the faint clack of fingers against keys, emanating from behind the closed door.

Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He collected his tea (some rubbish Irish breakfast blend), grabbed the morning paper, and collapsed in his armchair with a soft thud.

He flipped through the paper for a few minutes, absently noting the murder in Dunwich - he'd have to ask Sherlock who the culprit was - and flipping over to the horoscope section. Rubbish. Complete and utter rubbish. Good for a laugh, though.

_Cancer: Don't give up on love just yet. It always seems darkest before the dawn, and for better or worse, a period of recent uncertainty is finally drawing to a close._

Bollocks. It wasn't even funny this time. He should just stick to the crossword section.

He nearly leapt out of his seat when he heard a click and saw the handle of Sherlock's doorknob turning. Without thinking, he took a giant mouthful of tea and tried to swallow it without choking to death.

_Slow gulps, Watson._

When he finally opened his eyes, Sherlock was standing across from him, stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring at John, eyes wide and jaw slack.

John set the mug down and wiped off the residual moisture from his panicked swallow with the back of one hand.

Sherlock was still staring. John should say something. "Finally decided to join me?" he asked.

John felt something twist in his stomach as Sherlock's gaze drifted to John's mouth and lingered there. "New tea?"

Why the bloody hell was Sherlock asking about - oh, right, the tea.

"It's got this sort of bitter aftertaste, but at least it was only one-twenty for a fifty gram box." John flexed his jaw, tongue and upper palate still stinging from half a cup of scalding liquid dumped unceremoniously in his mouth all at once.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side and started striding to the door. He reached for his coat in one fluid motion.

By all appearances, Sherlock was attempting to get away from John. If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock was embarrassed for having been caught staring at John's lips too long.

John shifted in his chair. "Is there a case?"

Sherlock turned back to look at him, shaking his head, but not meeting John's eye. "No. Going to the shops." He looked thoughtful. "I need oranges for the mould study."

Going to the shops, John's arse. More like "doing something you won't approve of but lying about it so I won't get a scolding." John might as well make the best of it, though. "Oh! Right then. Can you get some beans, while you're at it, and more jam, thanks?" He flashed his sunniest smile at Sherlock, who promptly grimaced and stormed off, slamming the door behind him as he went.

x.x.x.x.x

Just when he thought his life couldn't get any more complicated, a knock sounded at John's front door.

"Bloody hell," he swore under his breath.

He opened the door to reveal Mycroft Holmes, smug as ever, clad in an impeccably tailored suit.

John took one look before simply turning and walking wordlessly to the kitchen, expecting Mycroft to follow.

"He's not here," John remarked calmly as he pulled the Irish breakfast from the cupboard.

Mycroft ignored John, as per usual. "One sugar, please."

John set out a mug for Mycroft and scooped a spoonful of sugar into it as he waited for the kettle to boil.

"How have you been, John?" Mycroft asked, leaning on his umbrella.

John didn't look up. "Fine, thanks."

"I assume you know why I'm here."

John sighed as he closed the tin back up and set it on the shelf.

Mycroft was silent behind him. John could feel eyes burrowing into the back of his skull.

_Of course I know why you're here, Mycroft. I keep thinking about buggering your little brother, and it's driving me slowly mad. One of these days I'm going to snap and just bend him over the sofa._

"No, actually." John poured hot water into the mug and handed it to Mycroft silently before heading back into the sitting room.

Mycroft settled gracefully into Sherlock's chair and sipped at his cup delicately. "Sherlock has been spending more time in his room of late."

John said nothing, just lifted his eyebrows. _So?_

Mycroft set the mug down on the chair arm, long fingers curling elegantly around the handle. "It seems he has become absorbed in a new experiment."

_Deep breaths, Watson. Do not punch Sherlock's brother. Sherlock would want the chance to do it himself._

"Yes, well," John said, picking his own tea back up, "you know how he is. Always involved in something or other."

"John," Mycroft said, his tone suddenly scolding and his mouth turned down at the corners, "I am merely interested in your, and his, well-being."

John snorted into his mug. "Right."

The sigh emanating from Mycroft was impressive in the magnitude of its conveyed irritation. "My brother has come to depend on you, Dr. Watson. I simply do not wish to see him drive you away."

John grit his teeth. "That's none of your business."

"It is if it concerns my brother's happiness."

The urge to do violence was slowly creeping past the limits of John's self control. "Are you done with your tea? Look at the time. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself, Mycroft. I'm sure you can see yourself out."

Mycroft quirked an amused eyebrow even as John rose to his feet. "Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson."

John snatched the proffered mug from Mycroft's hand and marched to the kitchen to dump the nearly untouched tea into the sink.

When he turned around, Mycroft was gone.

x.x.x.x.x

After Mycroft left, John decided that he was done. Done with the damn experiment. Done with Mycroft's overbearing interference. Done with Sarah's insinuations.

He made a full sweep of the flat, removing cameras from their hiding places and dumping them on the kitchen table for Sherlock to find.

When he got to the sitting room, he plucked the camera facing his arm chair off the shelf and stared at it for a full minute. (It had been hidden in the hollowed out spine of a reference on surveillance equipment - Sherlock had probably had quite the giggle planting that one.) As he stared at the camera, though, his anger melted away in a wave of exhaustion.

Sherlock... probably meant well. He was curious about John. He cared about him, whether he ever admitted it out loud.

And maybe it wasn't so bad to let him keep one camera intact. Sherlock was on the sofa more often than John was, anyway. It was easy enough to avoid, and there was something charming about the way Sherlock kept trying to find excuses to get John onto the sofa with him.

And if he did remove all the cameras? If his attempt to disrupt Sherlock's experiment was successful? What then?

No more blatant manipulation of John's emotions.

But no more flirting, either. No more "accidental" touches. No more intense stares - well, no, those would probably stay. They'd just be much more annoyed in nature.

_"John, of course he didn't die of dysentery. He was eaten by wolves. Just look at the man's forehead. Any imbecile could tell that."_

He started going through the motions of putting the kettle on, the feel of the tap cool under his hands, the rush of the water a comforting buzz in his ears.

John pressed two fingers to his temple as he let the familiar movements wash away the tension in his muscles. As John had long suspected, tea could fix just about anything.

Even knowing that you would never see the adoration you felt reflected back at you.

Even being monitored without your consent and experimented on like a lab rat.

Even being in love with your flatmate.

Yes. Even that.

Something tight uncurled in John's chest, and suddenly he could breathe again. He smiled to himself as he settled in to wait for Sherlock's return.


	4. The Inappropriate Sofa Incident

**Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident**

John had just finished his second cup of tea when he heard the sound of footsteps downstairs. He sighed and struggled to his feet, one hand absently rubbing the aching muscles in his left shoulder.

He started filling the kettle from the tap as the door opened and Sherlock burst into the kitchen, accompanied by the telltale rustle of shopping bags.

He did not, however, dump the bags on the table, or the floor, or the counter. He stopped dead in his tracks, not making a sound.

John didn't turn to look, willing his hand not to shake as he finished filling the kettle. "Mycroft stopped by. I thought I'd make sure the flat was clean." He paused, remembering the excuse he'd thought of during the second half of his first cup of tea, fifteen minutes prior. "He said he wanted to invite us to some family dinner. Don't worry, I told him off."

"Oh. Thank you."

_Thank you?_ Sherlock must have been more rattled than John realised. He turned to look at Sherlock, and the man was staring at the cameras lying on the kitchen table, looking a tad queasy. His grey eyes were opened wider than normal as he set the three bags of food gently on the floor.

John tried to bite back his smile as he turned back to pour water into the two mugs. As he handed Sherlock his cup, Sherlock's eyes flickered up to John's.

"The funny thing," John said, heart suddenly beating louder in his chest, "was the number of cameras." He took a sip of his tea and steeled himself for the next bit. Sherlock's fingers twitched on his mug, causing the serene surface of the tea to ripple.

John cleared his throat. "There was one in the front hall, one in the sitting room, and two in the kitchen." Sherlock's lower lip protruded in a faint pout when John mentioned the count of sitting room cameras. "Now, I don't see why Mycroft would need more than one camera in a room. And it was quite curious. One of them was angled towards the cooker, and I'm not aware of you ever having used it." Sherlock gazed back at John with wide eyes full of alarm, for just a fraction of a second, before the calm mask fell back in place. John took another sip of tea to hide his smile.

Sherlock fidgeted. "Perhaps my brother is attempting to obtain footage of you, not me."

The thought of Mycroft Holmes planting cameras to spy on _John_ was almost enough to make John cough up his most recent swallow of tea. "Right. What, does he fancy me?"

Suddenly he remembered his conversation with Sherlock about the possibility of cameras in the loo. He thought back to all the times he had leaned up to the top shelf in the kitchen, trying to give Sherlock a better view of his arse.

"Oh God," John blurted. Was Mycroft wanking off to that in his secret government office? "He doesn't fancy me, does he? I don't think I could survive the attention of more than one Holmes."

John realised his mistake almost as soon as the words fell out of his mouth.

"What do you mean, more than one?"

Bugger.

John bit back a mortified groan and waved his free hand in Sherlock's direction. "Just forget it." As if Sherlock would forget anything. He might have deleted the solar system, but he always remembered vital information needed to irritate one John Watson.

A strategic retreat at this point would likely be best. John strode out to the sitting room and flipped on the telly.

Sherlock wandered out, looking mildly puzzled, before he flopped onto the sofa, nearly kicking John's tea as his feet landed with a soft whumpf in John's lap.

"Oi," John scolded half-heartedly.

"Put on the Discovery Channel. There's a special about bees on."

John slouched into the sofa as he frowned at Sherlock, but he still leaned over to fish the remote from between the sofa cushions. "You and bees."

Sherlock just smiled at him, a brief, sincere thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. John could do nothing more menacing than grin back in response.

x.x.x.x.x

A few nights later, John was typing up a blog entry as Sherlock lolled about on the sofa, legs propped up against the sofa back and head hanging off the side in a position that would have caused John's back to seize up if he'd even bothered to attempt it.

**_Sherlock is an utter prat, but_ (DELETED)**

**_These past few days have been nice. Sherlock and I haven't had many cases on - there was a minor tussle with a criminal that required us to run through a section of Chinatown that brought back fond memories of last year. Sherlock proclaimed the case boring and he really didn't give me any details, so, that'll have to wait for another day._**

**_Lately, I've _(DELETED)**

**_Sherlock has been conducting some experiments. Not too many with body parts, though, so that's a good job. I've been working some shifts at the surgery__, and fantasising about_(DELETED)_. Nothing terribly exciting._**

**_Harry, you were right._ (DELETED)**

**_Sherlock_ (DELETED)**

**_I_ (DELETED)**

**_BOLLOCKS TO THIS_ (DELETED)**

John was in the middle of angrily deleting his last sentence when Sherlock lolled his head about to look at John upside-down. "Bored."

John frowned and attempted another paragraph.

**_"Bored." _**

**_He's always bloody bored. I could strangle him. I could probably get away with it, too, since Greg's on my side and the rest of the yard couldn't tell their arse from their elbow, according to Sherlock._**

**_So why do I like the bloody irritating git so much?_**

John should probably delete the entire blog entry. Yes. That was for the best.

"_Bored._"

John frowned as he moved to click his mouse on the "Delete Entry" button.

"John. I'm _bored_."

"Yes!" John snapped, viciously jabbing "Confirm" at the dialog asking him if he were truly, 100% positive that his idiotic ramblings should be wiped out of existence. "I heard you the first fifty times."

Sherlock shifted on the sofa, curling up into the corner and clutching his knees to his chest. When John finally looked, he was studying John intently, his mouth turned down at the corners and his eyebrows drawn together.

John sighed as he closed his laptop and slid it onto the floor. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

John could have sworn he saw something flash in Sherlock's eyes - some unknown emotion, a strange vulnerability. It was gone before he had the chance to analyse it, and John wondered if he'd just been seeing things.

Sherlock pursed his lips, studying John for a long moment. "Give me a case."

John blinked, taken aback. Sherlock, seeing John's reaction, closed his eyes and leaned back into the sofa cushions. "Never mind."

John thought back to their text exchange of a few days ago.

"I don't have a case for you," John said, after a long moment. He was shocked that his voice remained steady. "Maybe you should check with Lestrade."

Sherlock let his feet drop to the floor and stared at John, gauging his sincerity. After what seemed like an eternity, he broke into a smirk. "Oh, I already asked him. An hour ago."

John bit his cheek, but he could still feel the corners of his mouth twitch upward. "You could always ask Mycroft for something."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "_Mycroft_?"

John giggled. "Right. Forgive me for even suggesting it."

Sherlock relaxed further into the sofa, waving one hand about airily. "I suppose, in this instance, I can forgive you for such an egregious suggestion." His eyes slid sideways, glancing at John sidelong, with a devil's grin tweaking up the side of his mouth. "But that still leaves my problem unresolved."

"Bored?" John asked, not bothering to hide his smile any more.

"Bored," Sherlock agreed.

"We could watch something on the telly, I s'pose."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And what would you want to watch? Something dull, I'm sure."

John raised an eyebrow, wearing an amused grin. "Not everything I watch is dull. Just because you have the attention span of a two-year-old doesn't make my taste rubbish."

Sherlock's eyes glittered as he waved his hand in John's direction. "Take those Bond films you're always on about. A complete waste of time."

John let his mouth drop open in mock anger. "You did _not _just insult James Bond."

"The plots are completely implausible. They keep giving expensive technology to this man, even though he constantly damages it. And how many STDs must he have by now? He never appears to use a condom when he sleeps with all of these women who inevitably, and inexplicably, fall for him."

"Of course they fall for him, Sherlock! He's _Bond_."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John turned away so Sherlock wouldn't see his flush. "Fine, what are we up to, now? Last week was _The World Is Not Enough_, yeah?" He strode over to the DVD shelf and pulled off _Die Another Day_. "Right. Pierce Brosnan'll teach you a thing or two."

John was looking forward to Sherlock's commentary on this one. It was one of the more mediocre Bond films, he thought, and Sherlock would surely complain not only about the ludicrous plot twists, but the excessive special effects.

And John had always had a thing for Halle Berry.

When John turned back around, Sherlock was smiling up at John from his spot on the sofa, and John almost dropped the DVD. What he wouldn't give to reach over and nibble on that lower lip. To press his lips against the corner of that smirk. To lick into that mouth, and taste this morning's coffee and the bitter tar of the cigarettes he knew Sherlock had been sneaking on the sly.

John swallowed, his throat suddenly bone dry.

_Stop looking at his lips._

"Popcorn," John said, whirling around and striding towards the kitchen before he was caught staring.

When he came back to the sitting room, bowl of popcorn in one hand and lager in the other, Sherlock was idly toying with the remote control as the DVD menu screen played. He didn't look as though he'd moved an inch, but he must have walked over to the DVD player, at least.

John settled next to him and didn't protest when Sherlock's hand snaked in and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Calories were calories.

They started the film, and it wasn't until twenty minutes in, in the middle of a long diatribe about the physics of hovercrafts and waterfalls ("There was no body, John! Falling off the edge of a waterfall isn't necessarily fatal") that John realised just how close Sherlock was.

Sherlock's thigh was pressed up against John's, warmth seeping through John's jeans, and he was resting his head gently against John's shoulder. John looked down at the soft head of dark curls that were currently tickling his chin and attempting to climb into his nostrils and make him sneeze.

Even if he didn't have Sherlock, even if Sherlock wasn't his - if he could have this, John thought, he could be happy.

Then, of course, Sherlock had to go and ruin it by squirming away and shoving positively _frigid _toes under John's thigh.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Cut it out!" He swatted at Sherlock's feet (long, elegant, and bare, with a few light hairs dusting the tops, the ankles sharp knobs just visible under the hem of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms) and scrambled backwards, towards the other end of the sofa.

"What?" Sherlock asked, batting his eyelashes in mock confusion.

"You wanker, you know exactly what." He glared. Bloody cold feet trying to steal John's body heat.

Sherlock simply pouted, his lower lip sticking out (just asking to be nibbled), and said, "I've no idea what you're talking about, John." He looked over at John with a sidelong glance, and the intensity in his gaze made John's insides boil.

John hadn't even realised he was holding his breath until Sherlock flopped onto him, head resting on John's leg, and it all came out in a rush of air.

Sherlock rolled over, falling onto his back, his head turning towards John's stomach. The heat of Sherlock's breath caressed John's belly through the thin layer of his shirt.

_While you're down there, Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind..._

John's nerves, already frayed, finally reached their snapping point. John started giggling.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up and he craned his neck to examine John's reaction, but before he could get a good look, John shoved him off his lap and bolted to hide behind the sofa.

Taken off balance by John's shove, Sherlock fell onto the floor, legs sprawled over the sofa cushions, and propped himself up on his elbows to stare at John. "You don't make a terribly good pillow."

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John said, trying to reign in his ridiculous laughter. "I'm a doctor, not a pillow!"

Sherlock smiled and John knew he had to escape before he did something stupid. Like crawl over the back of the sofa and bury his hands in wild curls.

"You ate all my popcorn," John said, throat tight, as he turned and fled into the kitchen.

x.x.x.x.x

Three days after what John was privately calling the "inappropriately arousing sofa incident," John's watch went missing. The watch that, less than a month ago, Sherlock had given to John as an apology for destroying his _good _watch in some bloody experiment with acid or flames or something similarly destructive.

Later that morning, when he saw Sherlock scribbling something frantically on a notepad as his missing watch melted into a puddle of goo in the microwave, John decided it would be safer for all involved (but especially Sherlock) to remove himself from Sherlock's immediate vicinity. He decided to go on a walk - which would have been much more soothing if it hadn't been drizzly and miserable outside, and he hadn't had mud smeared all over his trouser leg when a cab drove too close and splashed gutter water on him.

When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was ignoring him, fully absorbed in some other stupid experiment, and he didn't get a word of acknowledgement when he very pointedly called out "I'm going to sleep, you prat" and stomped off to his bedroom. At half past nine in the evening.

The following day, John saw nothing of Sherlock until three in the afternoon, at which point, Sherlock stormed out to the sitting room, glared at John, demanded to see his phone, and stormed off to his bedroom again. He didn't emerge for another thirty minutes, and when he did, he stalked over to John's armchair, dropped John's mobile in his lap, and returned to his bedroom.

It occurred to John then, that he hadn't made eye contact with Sherlock since he'd gone off to the pub with Lestrade on Tuesday, a few days after The Incident. It was Thursday now, and Sherlock was acting a right arsehole - more so than normal - so something must have changed.

Bloody hell.

Sherlock _knew_.


	5. Results

**Chapter 5: Results**

On the third day of being faced with a petulant flatmate, John decided enough was enough. Sherlock knew, and John knew that Sherlock knew, so it was about time that Sherlock knew that John knew that... Well. It couldn't get any worse, right?

John tried not to think about the many ways it could, in fact, get worse.

"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock stopped pacing a hole in the sitting room floor and just stared at John in horror. "What?"

Didn't think John would notice his incessant pouting, then. For being a genius, how did Sherlock manage to be so _thick?_

Instead of being a mature adult, Sherlock snapped at John and fled to the safety of his room. _Well, that could have been worse_, thought John cheerily. _He could have just shoved me down the stairs. _

_A confession of undying love might've been nice, though._

John snorted, tamping down the ache in his chest that flared up at the thought, and started up the tea kettle. He'd have to make some sort of peace offering if he wanted to lure Sherlock back out of his room.

While the kettle was heating, John walked over to Sherlock's room and knocked tentatively on the door. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I pried. Just... Come out, will you? I'll make you some tea."

Right. That didn't sound desperate at all.

Except... instead of the biting retort John was expecting, Sherlock sort of... moaned.

John's name.

_Oh, sweet Jesus._

Was it John's (admittedly lust-ridden and overactive) imagination, or was Sherlock actually touching himself in there?

John turned the whimper he emitted into a hasty cough and prepared his retreat. "Sorry, I didn't – um. I'll come back later, yeah?"

Come. Bad word choice. Or maybe good word choice. Fuck. Bollocks. Bugger.

And when John sat down heavily in his armchair, he was saddled with a massive erection and some very lewd images of exactly what Sherlock Holmes might be doing in his bedroom.

He was in the process of undoing his zip when a flushed and irritated consulting detective burst out of his room and practically ripped his coat from the stand by the door.

"I'm going out."

It was all John could do to mutter a faint "Um," without squeaking. Sherlock didn't turn to look. Thank God for small miracles.

When the door slammed shut behind Sherlock, John's problem hadn't gone away. It looked like Sherlock wouldn't be coming back for a while, so John ran upstairs to his bedroom before he could change his mind and see sense.

x.x.x.x.x

John was feeling considerably more cheerful after dumping his soiled pants in the hamper, taking a nice hot shower, shaving, and drinking a mug of tea. And eating a number of biscuits. There was still no sign of Sherlock, and John needed to keep his mind from wandering back to him every five minutes, so he put in Die Hard (the first one, of course; Alan Rickman was the best villain of the lot, in John's opinion) and stretched out on the sofa in his jimjams.

And then Sherlock came back and John's composure was shot to hell.

"Oh," he said intelligently. Yeah, real smooth, Watson. "I thought you would be gone longer, so I put on Die Hard."

_And had a wank. Good thing you weren't there for that. Not that I would have minded. Christ. Not a good time for this..._

John tucked his legs underneath himself and tried to occupy as little space on the sofa as possible. Maybe he could hide in the sofa cushions.

Instead, Sherlock apparently took John's mortification for an invitation to join him.

_Well, fuck me. ...God, I wish he would. Great, now I'm probably blushing like a ruddy secondary student._

"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked, interrupting John's internal debate. He was almost too quiet to hear.

Oh, just great. They were going to have "the talk." John steeled himself. "What do you mean, Sherlock?"

"It was when you read that article on limerence, wasn't it?"

Bloody hell.

John just managed a nod before tearing his gaze away from Sherlock.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him even as he was looking resolutely elsewhere... Not Sherlock's bedroom door! Oh bugger.

Time to apply diversionary tactics. "How long have _you_ known, then?"

"Since Tuesday."

As if that weren't bloody obvious, considering how he'd started pouting on Wednesday morning. John gritted his teeth and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Strange," he said, aiming for nonchalance but probably getting something closer to constipation, "that I knew something before you did."

"You know I'm not good with emotion."

John turned back to look at Sherlock. How had he let this man get so far under his skin?

The look in Sherlock's eyes was indecipherable, but John could have sworn he saw fear. It was the same look he'd seen at the pool. He didn't want to be the cause of that look. "I can go to Harry's," he said. "If you need. I'd like to stay tonight, since I'm knackered, but I can pack up tomorrow morning."

Sherlock's reaction was immediate. He lunged for John, shouting "No!" and gripping his arm painfully. What the bleeding hell? Sherlock was so close now. If John just leaned the tiniest bit forward, their lips would brush, and -

And Sherlock's eyes flared wide as he flinched back, letting go of John's arm as though it had burned him. "Sorry," he gasped out. John's heart was still pounding in his chest.

Well, at least John had established one thing. "So you don't want me to move out?"

"Stay. Please," Sherlock pleaded, shaking his head.

John fidgeted. He couldn't keep getting jerked around like this. Sherlock wanted him, then he ignored him. He flirted with him over texts, only to treat him like rubbish when he saw him. He subjected him to scientific experiments as though he was some sort of guinea pig. He smiled at John, and John felt his heart breaking.

Oh, he might be _attracted_ to John. But it was fairly clear, by now, that Sherlock was incapable of deeper emotion.

That was thing about falling in love, wasn't it? John had read it on that bloody article.

_...an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated..._

And Sherlock never would.

"It's just... It's going to be so much harder now."

Sherlock's face fell. "It doesn't have to be..."

"For you, maybe." Sherlock visibly recoiled, and John sighed, flustered, and it all just came tumbling out of him. "Look, it's just... I can't just ignore this and pretend that it's nothing. I've tried. God, I really have tried, Sherlock, but – do you have any idea how hard this is for me? How uncomfortable I am when I'm alone with you? When you get into my personal space?"

Sherlock looked at John as though he had been personally betrayed. The git. Like he was the one in pain here.

John shook his head, forced himself to get the words out. "You send me these text messages, and they feel like flirting, and for a while, it's okay. I can pretend..." John broke off, struggling to maintain his composure.

"Do you want to leave, then? Would it be easier?" Sherlock asked, voice impossibly soft.

Would it? John considered it, briefly. But... he couldn't. He'd thought about it, plenty of times, but... Sherlock just made everything feel real. He'd rather die than go back to his old life, staggering about the city on his cane, going home to a frigid little bedsit, and having nothing to look forward to. No one to come home to.

No. He wouldn't leave. "I'm not leaving unless you make me. You're still my best friend. It's just – don't pretend that this is somehow going to be okay, that I don't..." _love you._ John took a deep breath. He couldn't say the words out loud. "It was fine before. Before you knew. The past few days... I can't live like this, Sherlock. If we could just go back to the way we were before..."

He would lose the flirtatious texts, the cuddling on the couch, the looks of wonderment, and the sharp focus of Sherlock's entire attention, fastened on him. John would miss those things. But at least he wouldn't lose everything.

"Right then. I think I need some sleep. It's been a long day." Without daring to look back at Sherlock, John shoved off the sofa and trudged up the stairs to his room. He lay awake on his bed for a long time after, listening to the mournful strains of a violin echoing from the sitting room below.

x.x.x.x.x

John did not want to go downstairs.

He knew it was childish, but he lay in bed for a good forty minutes after waking, staring at the ceiling and wondering just how irritating Sherlock was going to be this morning, and all the mornings after, for that matter.

His stomach was rumbling menacingly for the fifth time when a sharp rap sounded on his bedroom door.

"I made tea. Stop hiding."

John buried his face in the pillow and tried to pretend he didn't exist.

"I expect you to be down before the toast gets cold," Sherlock said, voice slightly muffled by the closed door. He thundered down the stairs, clearly making as much noise as possible to get a rise out of John.

"Wanker," John mumbled into the pillow.

Well, it seemed Sherlock was back to his normal, infuriating self, which was a relief. The bit about the toast was odd, though.

John rolled out of bed and trudged reluctantly down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, using John's laptop (bollocks) and sipping a mug of Earl Grey absently.

Sherlock's eyes were still transfixed on whatever he was reading. Probably something about serial killers. Or tobacco ash. Or ways to annoy your flatmate. "Toast is in the kitchen."

There were two slightly burnt pieces of toast sitting on a plate on the kitchen table, still warm. Next to them was an unopened jar of marmalade, a steak knife, and John's mug of tea.

"Um, thanks," John called out.

Sherlock just grunted.

John put the steak knife back (on second thought, best put it in the sink, no telling what Sherlock had done to it), grabbed a butter knife from the drawer, and slathered his toast with a thick layer of marmalade before trooping over to his armchair.

"Um. Why did you make me toast, exactly?"

Sherlock smirked as he glanced over at John, flicking his hand in dismissal. "Bribe. I expect future favours."

John munched on the cold, crunchy, blackened toast. Whether it could even still be called "toast" was debatable. "You get an A for effort, I suppose."

Sherlock glared at John over his laptop. "And you wonder why I don't do nice things."

John bit back a smile. "Kidding! It's lovely, really, I'm quite touched." He took a taste of his tea and was pleasantly surprised.

"I'm not entirely incompetent, then?" Sherlock said, one eyebrow raised and his mouth twisted in that ridiculously adorable smirk of his. John did _not_ want to think about Sherlock's smirk right now.

"I do... appreciate this," John said, "but... it's just the tiniest bit suspicious, you know, making me tea and toast, right after suggesting I move out and treating me like shite for three days."

Sherlock's gaze flicked back down to John's laptop. "Well, you didn't move out, did you? Perhaps I am simply trying to convey my gratitude."

Now that was an entertaining thought. Sherlock, grateful?

"Could you stop by the shops when you've finished?" Sherlock asked, almost as an afterthought.

Of course Sherlock wanted something. Probably more cantaloupes for some stupid bloody experiment. Or maybe he'd used all the milk. Again.

"Are we out of milk?" John felt a surge of relief at the thought. Strange, to think that after the torture of the past three days, Sherlock was back to being a completely selfish git, who performed experiments in the bathtub and used all the milk just to get John out of the house so he could plant security cameras.

"Oh, yes, you should pick that up too."

Bloody presumptuous git. John struggled to bite back his smile. "Well, what did you want me to get, then?"

"Condoms," Sherlock said, eyes still directed at the laptop screen, rather than John.

"Condoms?" Why would _Sherlock_, of all people, need condoms?

Must be for some experiment.

"So we can have sex."

John really shouldn't have chosen that moment to take another mouthful of tea.

It took him a moment to process the words, and when he finally did, his tea ended up going into his lungs, and he choked and coughed. His mouthful sprayed all over Sherlock, John's laptop, and their sofa in the process.

"John!" Sherlock leapt from the sofa, heedless of John's beleaguered laptop, which he let drop in his haste. "Do try to keep your tea in your mouth, would you? Swallow, don't spit."

"Jesus! Sherlock, what?" John was vaguely aware of setting his toast on the table, but really, he had more important things on his mind right now. Sherlock Holmes was using _innuendo,_ for God's sake! "Are you taking the piss? I don't-"

"I would think it obvious, John. Even to you."

Sherlock was so close now, long fingers curled around John's, his breath whispering against John's cheek...

And John finally came to his senses and flinched back from his impossibly smug flatmate. Said smugness rapidly turned to annoyance, followed by concern.

"Perhaps my initial hypothesis was incorrect. Do you, or do you not, wish to engage in intercourse?"

_Oh God._

"With me," Sherlock clarified.

John had the feeling he should close his mouth. Any second now.

Sherlock frowned. "Never mind. It appears that my hypothesis has, once again, been disproved." His voice was a low rumble, his face blank.

Wait, what?

"I..." John attempted to clear his throat with a cough. "That wasn't a no."

Sherlock startled, his eyes flicking up from his careful examination of the floor. He didn't lift his head, just gazed at John intently from under his eyelashes. "Oh?"

Seeing Sherlock's eyes focused on him, his head still bowed, caused something inside John's stomach to flutter. He pictured Sherlock kneeling in front of him, head bowed, fingers pulling at John's zip...

John tried to gather his thoughts before he could say something truly idiotic. "Actually, that was more like a... Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?" He was still trying to wrap his brain around _Do you wish to engage in intercourse with me?_

"I don't have the faintest," Sherlock said, finally looking John straight on, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Are you going to pick up some condoms, or not?"

It was all John could do to not burst out into hysterical giggling. "No."

The expression of hurt on Sherlock's face was quickly replaced by a dispassionate mask. "Right."

"I have some upstairs," John said, and suddenly Sherlock looked both incredibly relieved and appallingly self-satisfied.

"Your room or mine?"

Sherlock really need to work on his chat up lines. For that matter, he needed to work on his priorities.

He'd known that Sherlock was attracted to him, of course he had, but now, he was... What, exactly, was Sherlock offering? John couldn't help but think that agreeing to be Sherlock's fuck-buddy would be simultaneously the best and worst decision of his adult life.

"Look, Sherlock, can we… I don't know, talk about this first? I mean."

Sherlock grimaced, his eyebrows furrowing and his lower lip protruding in a slight pout. "What's there to talk about?"

Trust Sherlock to not see the point of talking.

Well, it was clear that Sherlock didn't want him to move out. That he'd - mostly - gone back to being his cheerfully irritating self was a step in the right direction. But why the toast? In order to make John more amenable to his "suggestion"? And why was Sherlock talking about sex in the first place? Did he think that was what John wanted? Oh, God.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that yesterday we were talking about me leaving the flat and now you're trying to get me into bed with you?"

Sherlock didn't indicate that he had even heard what John had said, much less understood it.

"Dear lord," John said, disbelieving. No wonder the man was married to his work. "For being a genius, how do you manage…"

Maybe Sherlock was high. That would explain the bizarre attempt at seduction. And the good mood, after days of sulking. "No, look. I have no idea what you've been doing this morning but I suspect it involves some sort of drug, and I'm not going to just… leap under the covers, just because…"

Sherlock actually had the good grace to look affronted. "I'm not under the influence of any mind-altering substance, John. You wound me. Do you really think I would need to be in an altered state to desire more intimate relations?"

"Yes!" John hadn't realised he'd shouted until he saw Sherlock instinctively jerk back, nearly losing his balance as he collided with the table. "You must be out of your mind, as there's no other reasonable explanation for your behaviour! I don't understand. I don't know why you've pulled a complete 180, and suddenly you want to have sex!"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "I simply thought it would be the most efficient way to illustrate that I feel the same way about you as you do me."

Wait, _what?_

"I... do you?"

"Not yet, apparently. I was hoping to correct that."

Was that a terrible attempt at innuendo? Because Sherlock really needed to work on his _timing_. John felt a surge of irritation and he practically snapped, "Sherlock. Use your words. I'm an idiot, and I need to have things explained to me. So _explain_."

"I'm in love with you."

Well. John hadn't seen _that_ one coming.

Sherlock almost looked nervous now. "And I am assuming you feel similarly?"

"What?"

"Do. You. Feel. The. Same."

Wait, Sherlock didn't know?

"What? Oh! Yes."

_Real smooth, there._

Sherlock was still looking expectant, his eyebrows raised high, although the smile hovering about his lips made him appear considerably more amused. "Yes?"

Right. John should probably... say something. Yes. He could feel himself blushing. "I... ah. Yes. I'm fairly sure I'm in love with you."

"Would you like to have sex?"

John tried to ignore the mental images that conjured up. This was going to be weird enough as is. No need to rush into his first sexual encounter with a man on top of everything else.

"No."

Sherlock looked on the verge of a tantrum, as if John had taken away his mould samples or hidden his cigarettes. "Why not?"

So many reasons. None of which he wanted to tell Sherlock. "Not yet."

Sherlock seemed taken aback. "Ah."

John could get used to this. He smiled up at Sherlock, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Yes."

Sherlock hesitated. "Is... there anything you _would_ like to do? Now?"

"Yes."

Sherlock would catch up eventually. John just waited, trying not to smile and failing.

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking adorably puzzled, and John couldn't help but break into a giddy grin as he placed his hands on Sherlock's jaw and guided his lips down to meet John's.

It was, John was embarrassed to admit, not a terribly good first kiss. For one thing, Sherlock's hands remained twitching by his sides. John ended up jostling with Sherlock uncomfortably before tilting his face so their noses wouldn't collide. After their initial enthusiasm led to uncomfortably clacking teeth, they kept their mouths closed, which resulted (in John's opinion) in entirely too much spittle and not enough tongue.

Still, this was _Sherlock_. When John pulled away, Sherlock kept following him, only reluctantly pulling back and opening his eyes dazedly.

"So. What did you think?"

Sherlock stood there, blinking for a few moments, before his eyes brightened and a sly smile crossed his features. "Any proper experiment requires multiple iterations." His smile widened. "It is only through repetition that we can validate our results."

John resisted the urge to giggle. "Oh?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut at the first brush of his lips against John's, and John quickly followed suit, letting himself get lost in the sensation of Sherlock's mouth pressed firmly against his. They stayed like that for a few moments, just a careful brushing of closed mouths. John's hands rested lightly on Sherlock's hips, and he catalogued the feel of skin and barely noticeable stubble, the smell of Sherlock's aftershave and hints of coconut from his shampoo.

Feeling brave, John opened his mouth and darted his tongue out to swipe against Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock shuddered and his fists tightened, one clutching John's jumper and the other gripping his shoulder. He repeated the motion John had just made, swiping his own tongue against John's lip.

Sherlock buried his hands in John's hair as John dragged his tongue across Sherlock's lower lip. The gasp the other man uttered was obscene.

Something nagged at the back of John's mind as he licked his way into Sherlock's mouth. There was something off; Sherlock seemed hesitant. He kept letting John make the first move, often just echoing what John had done.

If John didn't know any better, he'd guess that Sherlock had never kissed anyone before.

Oh, bollocks.


End file.
